


All the Water in Lethe

by SaltCore



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Brainwashing, Hurt/Comfort, Language, M/M, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 17:05:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13505955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore/pseuds/SaltCore
Summary: Talon can try every trick in their playbook, every serum on their shelves, they will not make Jesse forget what they did.They will not make Jesse forget what they took from him.





	All the Water in Lethe

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't lie in the archive warnings.
> 
> Also, if you hated the ending to season one of rabbits or the series finale of the black tapes, give this a pass. There's mindfuckery going on with the point of view character. Why? I wanted to try something new.

Jesse flips Peacekeeper in his grip and slams the spiked butt of the revolver into the temple of the man who just tried to gut him. He crumbles to the ground with a sudden wash of blood, and Jesse kicks his knife out of his hand, just in case. Jesse’s hand drifts to the pocket where he keeps his reloaders on instinct, but he stops himself. It’s empty, and it’s been empty for the last five minutes. He’d take the rifle under the man at his feet, but he’d heard the click of a dry fire just before he went for the knife. He doesn’t have the time to untangle the weapon from the man and find his spare magazines—he can hear the rest of his squad coming.

Somewhere under the wash of adrenaline and hypervigilance of battle, he feels like an idiot. He’d let himself get separated from the rest of team. His paranoia tells him that it felt deliberate, that Talon was after more than the cargo container full of Volskaya R&D prototypes, but it doesn’t change what he has to do—get back to his squad without leading all this extra trouble to them.

Jesse ducks into a shadow, readies himself to pounce. If he can disarm one of them, he can even the odds a bit. He holds his breath as they pass, counts the heavy, slow footfalls to steady himself. Guesses that it’s four men.

They don’t see him, but it doesn’t matter. He fails to pull the last man’s gun from his hands in time. The rest of them descend, raining down blows but not firing their weapons. In what little of his mind isn’t devoted to pain, that strikes him as odd. It would be so much easier to shoot him.

Between one blink and the next, everything has turned upside down. He’s not face down on the ground any more, he’s staring at the ceiling. He can’t see the brim of his hat anywhere in his vision, and now that he’s thinking about it, he can feel his hair swinging freely on his scalp. He tries to feel around for his hat, but his arm is caught fast. He tugs harder, but something strikes him in the leg. The sudden sharp pain brings the slow throb of the rest of his body into the forefront of his mind.

Oh, right.

He must have passed out for a minute.

He glances around as best he can. He’s being dragged between two of them. The usual weight of his bandolier is gone, as is his body armor. He can’t feel his com in his ear either. Even by Jesse’s standards, this is bad. He doesn’t feel panic though. Panic was trained out of him a long time ago. His only hope is to wait for an opportunity to turn the tables.

Jesse lets his head loll back and closes his eyes again, plays possum. Listening, he can’t hear the sounds of fighting. If nothing else , he’s managed to divide Talon’s forces. Maybe everyone else is okay.

They drag him for a long time, which suits Jesse. He’s not a light man. The more they wear themselves out, the better his chances. He can only assume that they’re taking him to some kind of rendezvous. What they planned after that doesn’t matter. Jesse doesn’t intend to be around for it.

When he hears the chatter of unfamiliar voices, he gears himself up. This is it.

 The men dragging him stop and Jesse pulls his feet back under him, using his left arm to crush the arm of one and twisting away from the other. The one with the broken arm screams. A left hook sends the other flying into his squad mates.

They did, it turns out, bring him to a rendezvous. It’s not ideal.

Jesse charges the startled group in front of him. The one he punched is already out cold, but one of his squaddies is holding him up and the other is trying to get his weapon up. Jesse grabs the gun with his left hand and squeezes, collapsing the barrel, and punches the man holding it in the throat. He staggers back, gasping, leaving only the last, who drops his comrade far too late to be able to retaliate.

That’s four down, but there are more, lots more, and they aren’t shy. Jesse does his best to hold his ground, but someone hits him in the back of the head and his vision goes black just long enough for more of them to grab him and pin him down. He can’t help but wonder, again, why don’t they just shoot him?

He shouldn’t have thought about it.

It’s bizarre the kind of detail you can absorb when you think you’re about to die.  Jesse sees one of them shoulder his rifle in almost slow motion. He has blue eyes, a crooked nose, and thick scar following the curve of his cheek. Jesse twists, keeps struggling, tries desperately to pull one of the other goons between himself and that one. His face gets pressed into the concrete, facing away from the one with the gun.

The gunshot cracks through the air. Jesse waits for the pain to come, but instead there’s something worse.

He sees, off in the distance, Hanzo. Hanzo looks down at the sudden rush of dark red oozing out of his chest. His bow is in his hands, but he lets it clatter to the ground as he reaches back to touch his chest, shock written on his face. Even from here, Jesse can see Hanzo’s hand come back bloody.

Jesse dives forward with all of his strength, trying to get to Hanzo, but he’s caught fast. Hanzo looks up at him, mouth agape. Then, he collapses, crumples to the ground—inelegant, artless. Jesse can hear the soft sigh as his lungs give out.

Jesse screams.

He bellows and he fights and he struggles. He is consumed with the need to get to Hanzo, to try to stop the bleeding, to force air back into those lungs. He cannot get to him, he cannot break free. Had he been in a better state of mind, he might have noticed the pinprick, acknowledged the sudden tunneling of his vision and dulling of his senses, but oblivion consumes him all at once.  

 

* * *

 

You always break.

Jesse knows this, has seen it enough times. No matter how tough someone thinks they are, no matter how desperate they are to resist, they all eventually break. The pain comes, and if it keeps coming, then eventually you’ll say whatever you think you must to make it stop.

If it doesn’t stop, you just go crazy.

Snakes flip before a finger can be laid on them, and true believers start spilling after hours or days. People don’t tend to think about the middle though. Reyes did, was always watching for the ones that would pretend to break, who would vomit up what sounded like juicy intel just before they suffered anything too permanent.

As far as Jesse knows, not many in Blackwatch bothered to ask Reyes why he dismissed some confessions and not others. Jesse had asked.

There’s a kind of person who’s not afraid of pain and is cunning enough to turn your expectations against you even under duress. He lies just close enough to the truth to seem credible, sends you running after ghosts because he knows you want something to chase. Damn what you do to him later, because he’ll have won in the moment, and usually that’s enough. Enough for his people to get away or do what they wanted to. Enough that he knows he made you waste your time and your effort for nothing.

Jesse doesn’t know if that’s the kind of person he is, but he’s willing to find out.

 

* * *

 

Turns out, Talon doesn’t want what he knows. Nobody asks him a damn thing as they frog march him out of his cell and down the hall. Nobody asks him a thing as they force him onto a table and strap him down. Nobody asks him a thing before jamming needles in him.

It doesn’t hurt right up until it does.

It’s like someone poured molten lead in his arm, and then it spreads. He clenches his jaw so tight he thinks something might give, sucking sips of air between his teeth so fast it almost whistles. He bows up against the restraints, hears them creak, but they don’t give.

He doesn’t mean for the whimper to make it out of his throat, but he can’t help it. This is worse than having his arm blown off, worse than anything beating he’s ever endured.

Eventually, his mind gives up, and he stops feeing anything.

 

* * *

 

_He smells like the air after a lightning strike sometimes, crisp and sharp and otherworldly. He doesn’t really seem to come alive until there’s danger and challenge in the air, doesn’t smile his brightest unless there’s gun smoke swirling and death at his heels. He dances around the grim reaper’s scythe and across rooftops like some mythic figure, infuriating and perfect. He doesn’t ever slip, he doesn’t ever fall._

_Except._

_Except he did. A bullet tripped him up, split him open, let his blood spill onto the cold ground. He looked so scared, so confused, and that had never happened before. He fell._

_Jesse’s baby finally fell._

 

* * *

 

Jesse blinks. Someone is standing over him, turned slightly away. The room is too dim for him to make out any of the man’s features.

There’s something he’s supposed to remember. Something important.

Talon gunned Hanzo down.  Talon gunned Hanzo down. _Talon gunned Hanzo down. TalongunnedHanzodown._

The man turns and looks down at him. He looks like Gabe, but no, that’s not right. That’s impossible. Jesse blinks again.

The man is gone.

 

* * *

 

Jesse knows what happened to Amelie.

He knew what happened to Gerard first, years ago. It had, at the time, been one more senseless thing in a long list of senseless things that made up the major chords of Jesse’s life. The circumstances were strange, but Jesse was used to annihilation lurking around every corner. He watched his mentors mourn their friend, their brother-in-arms, but he moved on. Nobody lives forever.

He didn’t find out about Amelie until recently, and that cast everything into a new light. Taking a woman and twisting her against her lover, her dear husband? Corrupting an artist into an assassin? That was the clearest kind of message. Talon was capable of anything because they were willing to do anything. Crossing them meant enduring horrors of the worst kind.

And boy had they crossed Talon.

But Talon had crossed Jesse McCree right back. They took Hanzo from him. He is used to pain, he is no stranger to depravity, and he will hold Hanzo’s memory to his heart like a brand. They won’t take that from him.

Jesse is going to make them pay.

 

* * *

 

The pain comes, the pain goes. His thoughts, when he is lucid enough to think, are sluggish and half-formed. He knows he’s forgetting things. (Did Hanzo smile with his teeth or not? Did Ana bake him a cake for his first birthday after recruitment, or was that Gabe? What year did Genji get outfitted with the Mark II cybernetics?) They tell him things that don’t ring true, but he nods his head anyway.

He always remembers the shot, the blood, and the fall. He always remembers his reason to lie.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry, kid.”

The voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere far away. Jesse blinks, trying to get his eyes to focus, as he twists his head searching for the source. He thinks he sees Gabe, sitting beside him. But that’s not right. Gabe is dead. 

Jesse blinks again, and he gets a better look. Gabe, if that is Gabe, must be dead looking like that. That makes sense then. Gabe _is_ dead, but he still has something to say. Guess he must have really done it this time, really fucked it up, to make Gabe so mad he’s come back from the grave to rip him a new one. Mama swore up and down that the saints spoke to her, and they’re all as dead as it gets.

That’s a funny thought – Saint Reyes, patron of fuck ups and last chances. He’d have liked that. Jesse opens his mouth to tell him, but the ghost or apparition of Gabe speaks again.

“I didn’t plan for him to break ranks to go after you. That's not what his profile suggested, but I know those only go so far. And you turned into a hell of a wild goose chase. Here I thought half the things I taught you went in one ear and right out the other.”

The apparition laughs. Or maybe chokes, it’s hard to tell. The guttural, syncopated noise reminds Jesse of wet meat and tearing. Maybe the afterlife isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Gabe reaches out and places his hand on Jesse’s shoulder. It’s cold. Jesse tries to shy away, but he can’t move. He doesn’t fight as hard to move as he should, because he’s trying to figure out what Gabe is talking about. Who broke ranks? Was it Mkhize? That bastard never could keep his shit together.

“None of that’s going to make it better, but when you see what’s at stake, I hope you’ll come around. Even if you never forgive me.”

Dread crawls its way up Jesse’s spine, curling his fingers and toes. There’s something he’s forgetting, something he’s missing. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to remember.

The crack of a gunshot. Blood, not his, someone else’s. Shock, twisting a set of perfect, regal features. The dull thump of a body hitting pavement.

Hanzo. Hanzo breathing his last two dozen yards away from Jesse, but it might as well have been a million miles, because Jesse couldn’t get to him, couldn’t get away, ended up here.

He thrashes, as hard as he can, but he can’t budge, still can’t get free. He’s as helpless now as he was then. It burns, but it feeds his determination. Whatever they’re trying to do to him, he won’t let it work. He’s going to kill everyone who was there when Hanzo died, and then everyone else who’s ever put on a Talon uniform, and then—ghost or no—he’s going to make Gabe explain what the fuck he’s talking about.

He opens his eyes, but he’s alone.

 

* * *

 

Jesse wakes to the sound of klaxons. He jerks on animal reflex, and finds that he can move his arm. Not a lot, but he has just enough slack in the strap that he can reach the lock on the cuff with his prosthetic. Someone must have undone it and put it back too loose. Jesse doesn’t question it.

The lock gives way under his titanium fingers, and then it’s simple work to free himself of the other straps. He rips the needles and sensors off his body with more haste than care. The _things_ they stuck to his temples burn when he pulls them free. He tears a few jagged wounds, but anything to stop more of their shit pumping into him is worth it.

He looks down at himself for the first time in—

He has no idea. That scares him. He doesn’t feel hungry or thirsty, but the adrenaline might be suppressing that for the moment. He has fading bruises all across his arms and chest, with thick, consistent ones on his wrist and chest from fighting against the straps. He presses his fingers into them, and they hurt. They’re no way he’s been here for only hours. It would have to be days. Maybe weeks.

There’s no time to think about it. He has work to do.

They left him in his own boots and pants, but his shirt is gone. His misses his body armor more than the shirt, but there’s nothing for it. He looks around.

The room looks like a standard field medical suite. There are chests of drawers and dark equipment lining the walls. Jesse starts going through every drawer, looking for anything that could be a weapon. A scalpel, for instance. They’re delicate but it’s hard to find a finer edge. He finds one and grabs it.

He goes to the door and tries to open it. To his surprise it goes without any resistance. They must have been sure the straps would hold. He opens it just a fraction and listens. There’s noise—the klaxons that woke him, low thudding that’s either thunder or small artillery, and very faint shouts. Nothing close. It’s dark outside the door, but that suits him just fine.

He edges out into the hall, crouching low and moving slowly while his eyes adjust. He can still remember the face of the bastard that shot Hanzo. That scar should be easy to spot.

Jesse goes hunting.

 

* * *

 

The first human he encounters runs right past him. Jesse catches only the barest glimpse of his wide-eyed terror as he goes. He’s not the right guy, but he’s Talon, and he’s got most of his gear on. He stops, just past where Jesse was crouched in the dark, and starts fiddling with his weapon’s strap. Must have put it on in a real hurry, or he’s not used to it. Not Jesse’s problem.

Jesse slits his throat before he ever knew Jesse was there. He falls forward with a soft gurgle, and then he’s gone. Jesse mechanically undoes his flak vest and pulls it on. It’s not a good fit, but it’s better than nothing. Jesse pulls his sidearm and checks the magazine—full. Perfect. He also has a long combat knife that Jesse slips into his boot.

He feels a little better about his odds when he stands back up. He can make his own luck now.

 

* * *

 

Jesse leaves a lot of bodies in his wake before he finds _him_. He’s traded out pistols twice now. He must have made somebody happy up there, because they’ve been caught enough unawares that most haven’t had their full kit on. Jesse’s especially grateful for the lack of the full helmets.

It makes that scar so easy to see.

Jesse doesn’t say anything when he spots him, doesn’t offer him an explanation for what happens next. Jesse just squeezes the trigger and blows a neat hole right between his eyes. He drops face first, carried forward a little bit by the momentum he had before he died.

Jesse watches the pool of blood spread under the body and he feels—

He doesn’t feel much of anything. Hanzo’s still dead. That fact still feels like a knife twisting in his chest. Killing his killer didn’t fix it; it just balanced a ledger that’s never brought Jesse any comfort.

 

* * *

 

After that it’s not hunting anymore, it’s just getting out. After the getting out, he doesn’t know. Someone is here, attacking this place, but there’s no guarantee they’re friendly to him. He’s better off skirting the edges of the fight.

He’s successful enough at hiding that his mind has time to wander. He feels clearheaded enough now, but the memory of the hallucinations make him question it. He must have woken up between doses, but now, a little more sober, he knows he must have hallucinated Gabriel. There’s no such thing as ghosts, and it doesn’t feel like the memory of a dream. He has those bruises, after all, and remembers how he got them. He has no idea what part of their game that is, if it was intentional at all. Talon doesn’t seem like they worry much over side effects.

What it does mean, what he can be sure of, is that they’ve gotten to him. In some capacity, he’s compromised. His memories of this _experience_ are patchy at best. They could have put anything in his head. Not enough, though, because he’s left a trail of corpses in his wake, and that can’t have been part of their plan.

Unless.

Unless someone let him out on purpose. Unless they want him to go home. Unless they meant for him to be welcomed back to Overwatch with open arms so he could be activated when they least expected it.

No. He can twist himself into knots thinking about it, but this was never his strong suit. He has to believe he did this of his own free will, or he’ll turn the gun on himself. And he wants to get out of here alive today so he can raze this entire operation to the ground later. He might be a danger to his friends, his family, if he ever sees them again, but he’s as much a danger to the people who did this.

 

* * *

 

It’s night outside. Jesse takes deep gulps of the cool air, relishing it.  He’s not clear yet, but he’s so, so close. There’s only a chain link fence between him and freedom. He keeps to the shadows, but this facility is meant to blend in, and there’s nothing like guard towers. If they patrol, those troops are obviously otherwise occupied, and there’s not even windows on this side of the building for someone inside to see him tear a hole in the fence with his prosthetic.

He runs. Runs right into the shadows of the buildings across the street, then turns, then turns again, then doubles back. But no one follows, no one sees. He slows, lets his feet fall silent.

He needs real transportation. He can’t run forever, especially not half dressed with no real place to conceal his weapon. Getting picked up by the local police would only be marginally better than Talon finding him again. He creeps around the buildings, testing doors and windows.

He pauses in front of one window because a trick of the light made a mirror out of it. His face looks like he took eighth place in a shovel fighting contest—split lips, two black eyes, burnt skin at this temple, the works. He pokes at his nose, but it’s no more crooked than it was before. Small mercies.

There’s nothing in the way of unlocked buildings or handy transportation. It sets Jesse’s already frayed nerves on edge. He’s spent enough time in proximity to Talon for one trip, and the need to _get away_ is burning him up. Quite unexpectedly, he comes upon a sight that makes him almost faint with relief.

The Orca is sitting in a large parking lot.

Jesse looks around, but it seems like no one’s near. They don’t usually spare someone to watch the Orca, but that doesn’t mean it’s unmonitored. Jesse walks toward it, hands in the air on the off chance of the team _is_ nearby, and gets close enough that he knows he’ll have set off the proximity sensors.

He stands in the feeble moonlight, hands raised, and waits. He’s completely exposed, and the knowledge twists his guts with fear. Every instinct tells him to move, to hide, to do _something_ but he forces himself to be still.

He doesn’t want to be mistaken for a Talon solider and shot by his team. Lurking around the transport during an active operation is exactly how that could happen. He’d imagined going out in all kinds of stupid ways, but that would have to be one of dumbest.

More than anything though, he doesn’t want to hurt anyone from Overwatch. He doesn’t know how deeply Talon’s hooks have caught. He doesn’t know what would happen if someone walked up to him while he had a gun in his hand. He _thinks_ he feels like himself, but that’s the rub, isn’t it? He’d be the last person to know.

He sees a faintly blue light shoot up from inside the compound and arc down toward his position. It could only be Fareeha. He sags slightly with relief.

She lands hard, weapon aimed squarely at him. He doesn’t move, lets her assess.

“Jesse! Jesse set off the sensors, he’s at the Orca!” She shouts, lowering her weapon. She pushes up her helmet and stares at him in shock. Then, she starts running, clamping her rocket launcher to the mag strip at her lower back as she does.

“’Reeha, wait!” Jesse barks. Fareeha stops short, one arm awkwardly extended in front of her.

"I’ve got a pistol in my belt, and a knife in my boot.”

 “Okay.” Her gaze hardens, and her eyes dart over him, suddenly assessing. “Okay.”

Cautiously, she takes the knife out of his boot and tosses it aside, then takes the pistol. She unloads it, throws the magazine one way and the gun the other. She perfunctorily pats him down, but doesn’t find anything else. Jesse thinks he’s more relieved than she is.

Then her professionalism disappears and she throws her arms around his neck, squeezing tightly. Jesse clenches his fists in the air instead of hugging her back.

“God, you’re a pain in the ass when you’re gone,” she says with a wet chuckle.

“Can’t make you happy, can I, you brat?”

Fareeha lets him go to bat her knuckles into his middle. Jesse can’t make himself drop his arms—if, _if_ , he won’t have a choice but to telegraph and Fareeha will see it coming—but he kicks at her feet in retaliation.  Over her shoulder, he sees Ana approaching. She’s not running, she hardly ever runs, but she’s moving at a good clip. She looks stern. Jesse sees her eyes light on the weapons Fareeha had relieved him of before glancing over him. Her lips press into a thin line.

She marches right up to him and pulls him down with both her hands on his face, placing a kiss on each cheek. She runs her thumbs over the split in his lower lip, then brushes his hair back to check his black eye. She must see the sore spot at his temple, because her eyes widen, and for the briefest moment she looks afraid.

“What did they do to you?” she asks softly.

“I—I’m compromised, Captain Amari. I don’t rightly know how much, but I might be a danger to the team.”

He can see Fareeha’s simultaneous horror and fury out of the corner of his eye. Ana just looks heartbroken.

“Oh, my poor boy.”

“Don’t—” Jesse has to stop to swallow. He can’t meet either of their eyes. “Don’t let me. I don’t want anyone to end up like Gerard. I don’t wanna end up like Amelie.”

“Jesse, look at me,” Ana says, the authority in her tone jerking his head up like a physical force. “I promise that won’t happen.”

Jesse squeezes his eyes shut, sighing with relief. He trusts Ana with, with _everything_. She’ll do what she has to do to keep everyone safe. He can count on that.

He opens his eyes again, and his breath catches in his throat. There, at the edge of one of the darkest shadows, is the pale specter of Hanzo. It’s staring at him, with that same expression he had just before he—

Jesse fists his hands and presses them into his eyes. The memory plays out with perfect fucking clarity—the gunshot in his chest gushing dark red, Hanzo crumpling forward, the wide-eyed shock on his face, the soft sigh of his last breath.

He collapses to his knees, hears Fareeha scream his name. Someone’s hands are on his shoulders. Jesse can’t find any air. Hanzo’s lungs don’t work anymore, it didn’t seem right that his kept going, maybe they’re finally getting the message.

It’s not enough that he saw Gabe in there, either as some ghost or some misfiring as they co-opted his mind, now he’s seeing Hanzo too.  And not even Hanzo as he was, but Hanzo at the moment Jesse was most helpless to protect him.

“Captain Amari, I’m—I—”

Those hands on his shoulders shift, one sliding down to his waist and the other curling around the back of his head. They tug gently, but Jesse is terrified to follow. Distantly, he knows he can’t trust anything his body tells him. What if he reaches out, and instead of embracing someone, he breaks their neck? He knows all too well what his hands are capable of.

The tugging is more insistent, and he lets himself go limp. He’s pulled into a broad human warmth, smelling of sweat and faint evergreen, just like, like—

He wants to reach back, wants it like a drowning man wants air, but fear stays his hands. The body holding him rumbles as he hears an impossible voice whisper his name.

“Ana, _please_ ,” Jesse chokes out.

There’s a sharp pain in his thigh, then cold, and then nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

Something warm and firm under his cheek. Fingers in his hair. Shouting in the air around him. He should move, should open his eyes, but he can’t make himself. The thick fog muddling his mind is too comforting, too insistent to fight.

He lets himself slip back under.

 

* * *

 

Jesse jackknifes upright. Is astounded he can do that, but he doesn’t waste time gawking. He yanks the tubing and wires out of him, and looks around for a weapon as the alarms begin to blare. He won’t have long before those Talon fucks get here, and, fuck it, he has his left arm and that’s better than nothing.

He staggers when he tries to take the first step, but he catches himself on the bed before he hits the floor. He shakes his head and concentrates on the second step. It comes easier, and the third and fourth easier than that. He can do this, he’s going to make the best of this shot.

He glances out into the hallway, and he doesn’t see anyone but he hears footsteps. _Shit, shit_. He takes off in the other direction, bracing himself on the wall when he has to. The footsteps are getting closer, so he stops sharply and turns to swing a wild haymaker at whoever’s behind him.

He ducks, almost as if he was expecting it, and hops back lightly with his own fists raised.

“Hey, hey, Jesse, it’s me!”

Jesse, in spite of himself, is caught up short.

“Genji?”

“Yeah, Genji, I’m Genji,” Genji’s tone is probably meant to be soothing, but it kind of makes Jesse want to swing at him again. So, it’s definitely Genji. “You going to try to hit me again?”

“Naw.” Jesse lowers his hands and sags against the wall. Genji straightens back up, open concern etched on his face.

Now that Jesse is actually looking, he can tell this is the Watchpoint, not whatever Talon facility he’d been held at. He can also remember escaping, finding the Orca, Fareeha and Ana, and—

Jesse presses his hand over his eyes and grits his teeth.

 _Gunshot, shock, falling_.

“Jesse?” Genji’s voice sounds tense, maybe even a little scared. Christ, Genji just lost his brother, and now he’s got a time bomb for a best friend.

“I’m—I’m alright.” It’s not a lie in the immediate sense. He’s not about to pass out, and he’s pretty sure he’s not about to try to murder Genji either. But past right now, well.

One thing at a time.

“How about we go tell Angela that? You know how she feels about escaping from the medbay.”

Genji’s joke falls a little flat, but Jesse laughs anyway, trying to force normalcy. He scrubs his hands down his face before dropping it.

Genji’s closer than he was, one hand tentatively extended, uncharacteristically unsure. Jesse waves him off. He doesn’t need the help to walk, and the low grade fear of letting anyone close wouldn’t let him accept it anyway. He looks away from Genji, discomfited by his scrutiny.

Genji lets his hand drop, but he doesn’t back away. Genji wouldn’t be afraid of him, would he? Crazy bastard. Jesse pushes himself off the wall and starts walking back the way he came. Genji falls into lockstep beside him, only making a token effort to look like he’s not watching Jesse’s every move.

In the privacy of his own skull, Jesse can admit he feels like a raw nerve. He’s exhausted, and there’s no promise of easy sleep ahead of him. He can’t believe they didn’t strap him down or lock the door. They have to know he’s a liability. Captain Amari promised him.

But they did notice immediately when he got up, so maybe he should give her more credit. And while he took a swing at Genji, that was more adrenaline and confusion than the well planned actions of a sleeper agent. Maybe he’s better off than he thought. He lets that comfort him as he and Genji turn the corner to the long hallway that will take them back to the medbay. He glances up to sate the instinctual need for situational awareness.

There, at the end of the hallway, stands the ghost, wide eyed, with his lips slightly parted in shock. Jesse freezes in place. He knows what happens next, but he’s helpless to so much as blink. Even if he closes his eyes, his traitorous mind will play it for him anyway.

Distantly, he hears Genji says his name, but it’s like he’s miles away. All his attention is on Hanzo, waiting for the blood, the fall. _Just get it over with_ he wants to scream, but there’s no air in his lungs.

Hanzo takes an impossible step. The shock fades, replaced with a stern determination. His eyes are burning, absolutely fixated on Jesse.

Jesse doesn’t know what it means.

Even when Hanzo’s hands curl themselves around his face, he doesn’t know what it means. Jesse watches as Hanzo’s eyes search his face, feels his thumbs brush feather light over his bruises. His hands are warm, his calloused skin familiar.

Hanzo stretches up and presses his lips to Jesse’s in a soft, chaste kiss. If this isn’t real, then Jesse never wants to go back to reality. Hanzo pulls him down into the crook of his neck, one hand curling behind his head to cradle it and the other pressing into the small of his back. Jesse can feel the soft rush of his breath brushing along the shell of his ear.  

Hesitantly, Jesse reaches back. He presses his fingers into the firm warmth of Hanzo’s side, sliding around to the small of his back. Jesse fists his hand into shirt covering the bow of spine he knows so well.

“Breathe, Jesse,” Hanzo says, rubbing between his shoulder blades. Jesse takes a shuddering, choking gulp of air.

“What— _how_ —”

_Gunshot. Shock. Fall._

Hanzo pulls back so Jesse can look him in the eye. He’s not some pale, dead ghost, but a breathing, _living_ man. Jesse pushes his hand under the hem of Hanzo’s shirt, skimming his fingers upward until he finds the raised knot of the fresh scar. Hanzo presses his hand over Jesse’s.

“Their marksmen are pedestrian at best,” Hanzo says softly. “And Dr. Ziegler responded quickly.”

“Also, Hanzo’s going to have the last word with god,” Genji says. Hanzo scowls at him, imperious as ever. Genji’s nose is wrinkled, but his smile is good natured. “Hurry up, I’m not facing Angela without Jesse.”

Hanzo frowns at that, but shifts so he’s standing at Jesse’s side, one arm slung around Jesse’s middle. Genji strides off ahead of them with a significant look. Jesse can’t stop staring at Hanzo.

“I saw you die,” Jesse says in a strangled whisper. “I thought you were dead.”

“No, no,” Hanzo says. Hanzo pulls him forward gently. “I’m very much here. Is that why you reacted—?”

Jesse nods dumbly. He doesn’t know if he should tell Hanzo that the memory of watching him die—no, not _die_ , get shot—kept him sane, that the need to avenge him overwhelmed everything Talon did. Doesn’t know how he would even phrase it.

Late, Jesse lifts his arm to lay it across Hanzo’s shoulders. They’re warm, like they should be. Hanzo tugs his loose hair out from under Jesse’s arm, like he always has. It still doesn’t feel real. Jesse’s scared to trust it.

Hanzo doesn’t say anything else, just walks in step with Jesse back to the room Angela had put him in. Jesse hears Genji, speaking as loudly as he can, say _I found him, he’s fine_. Angela’s response isn’t clear, but her tone is annoyed.

He and Hanzo round the corner. Angela and Genji are standing there, Angela in her pajamas with her lab coat thrown over top. Captain Amari and Fareeha are standing to the side, also dressed down, as are Morrison and Winston.

“Jesse!” Fareeha shouts, rushing forward. She drags him out of Hanzo’s grasp and throws her arms around his neck in a crushing hug. “Don’t _do_ that.”

Jesse doesn’t ask precisely what she means, just hugs her back. She feels like she always has. She tugs him forward so her feet can lie flat on the floor and rocks side to side.

“You,” _rock_ “scared” _rock_ “me.”

“Sorry, kid,” Jesse says.

Fareeha finally lets him go, patting him just a little too hard on his cheek. Jesse bats her hand away. It’s painfully, magnificently familiar. Hanzo takes his right hand, reeling him back to his side.

Angela is giving him a very pointed look, so Jesse shuffles back to his room, Hanzo and everyone else in tow. Jesse sits down on the side of the bed, feeling sheepish. Hanzo sits primly next to him, resting Jesse’s hand in his lap with both his own wrapped around it. Angela begins hooking him back up to the monitors and the IV bag, frowning at the damage he did taking it out.

“Well, no lasting harm done,” she says. “Please, refrain from doing that again.”

“I’ll try,” Jesse says.

“Well, since he’s awake,” Winston starts, making a wide gesture. Angela sighs.

“I’m doing my best to assess what was done to you in captivity. Your input, of course, will be necessary.” She pauses, glances briefly around the room before meeting Jesse’s eyes again. “Of course, if you would like more time to rest, I understand.”

Jesse shakes his head.

“It’s fresh now,” he says softly. Hanzo squeezes his hand once, reminding him that he’s here. Jesse licks his lips, looks at the audience. Sympathetic as he could ask for, pretty much. There was a mindset he’d cultivated in Blackwatch for debriefing from really ugly ops. He calls it up now.

“I don’t remember clearly, I’m missin’ time. But they definitely pumped me full of somethin’." Jesse scrubs his free hand through his hair. Christ, the hallucinations. “I _saw_ shit, but I also fought my way out. Dunno where that leaves me.”

Hanzo’s grip tightens, and Captain Amari and Morrison both have a calculating look.

“I feared as much. I took brain scans when you arrived, and Athena is comparing them to the last ones I have on file,” Angela says. “There’s no way I know of to condition someone in a matter of days without physical intervention. Brain lesions, for example, or other damage. Your bloodwork did come up positive for benzodiazepine and trace amounts of other psychotropics.”

She reaches out, lays a delicate hand on Jesse’s knee.

“I’ll let you know the minute I know what the results are. We don’t have a basis for comparison—” Jesse translates _we don’t know precisely what was done to Amelie_ “—but you aren’t presenting like we would expect a sleeper would.”

“She means you showed back up in a bloody, stolen flack vest and begged Ana not to let you hurt someone,” Morrison says.

“ _Jack_ ,” Captain Amari hisses, throwing an elbow, but Jesse understands what he means— _that ain’t how we found the last one_. It does make him feel better.

“We’ll take care of you, no matter what, McCree,” Winston says. Jesse, damn him, believes it. Hopes like hell they don’t come to regret it.

“You oughta,” Jesse stops, clears his throat. “You might oughta be more careful with the security. Till we’re sure.”

Jesse doesn’t look, but he still feels Hanzo shift. The expressions he does see are tight, pained.

“Jesse,” Angela starts, but Jesse holds up his hand.

“This ain’t a time for _sentimental_ , Doc. This is personnel safety.”

Angela looks back over her shoulder to Captain Amari, Morrison, and Winston. The Captain and Morrison both have their lips pressed into thin, grim lines. Winston’s expression is hard to read. Morrison looks around, then makes an expansive gesture.

“McCree’s got a point. We should treat him as a threat until we know otherwise. He still sees sense, we should as well.”

“What are you suggesting?” Winston asks.

“Lockdown. Ideally no one alone with him, but especially no one with lower CQC scores than him.”

Captain Amari lifts her hand to her face and sighs. Fareeha’s jaw muscles twitch, like she’s trying to suppress an expression, but her eyes go sad. Genji looks away. Hanzo’s grip on Jesse’s hand tightens until the bones start to grind. Jesse glances sideways. He looks incensed.

“I’m not frightened of Jesse,” Hanzo says, only barely keeping his tone within the bounds of politeness.

“It’s not a matter of being brave,” Ana says. “It’s a matter of practicality.”

“She’s right, babe,” Jesse says. Hanzo whips his head to stare at Jesse, affronted. It twists Jesse’s heart, but the thought of finding Hanzo like they found Gerard chills him to the bone. What he says next he means, but he knows Hanzo will take it poorly. “I’ll rest easier if I know everyone else is safe.”

He sees a residual fear and bitter disappointment in Hanzo’s face. Jesse understands, he really does. He’d rather spend tonight and every other wrapped close around Hanzo, but he just found out Hanzo was alive. The most important thing in his calculus right now it making sure he stays that way.

Hanzo lifts Jesse’s hand to his lips, and then lets it go. That’s promise enough he’ll go along with Morrison’s lockdown. Hanzo schools his face to his default collected expressionlessness and slides off the bed, goes to stand with the others. Jesse misses his warmth immediately, but it’s worth it. He’s okay. _He’s okay._

That’s worth anything.

“Well, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Athena will be monitoring, as usual,” Angela says briskly. He receives murmured _good nights_ as everyone shuffles out. He hears the click as the door locks behind them.

It’s not the best way he’s ever bedded down, but he’s tired enough it doesn’t matter. That night, he doesn’t dream of anything at all.

 

* * *

 

Jesse wakes to sunlight on his face and good smells in his nose. He cracks an eye open. Hanzo is sitting beside him, reading, and there’s a covered tray sitting on a rolling table at Hanzo’s elbow. With the way Hanzo immediately notices Jesse’s awake, Jesse suspects he wasn’t getting much reading done. His smile is beaming.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Mornin’,” Jesse rumbles. Hanzo passes him a cup of water immediately, for which Jesse is grateful. “Doc know you’re in here?”

Hanzo gets that smug look Jesse finds so endearing in spite of himself. Angela must not have wanted to let him in, and he still got his way.

“It was plain that there’s nothing to be concerned about if you were sleeping and your visitors were not. Also, my scores are sufficient.”

Oh, that discussion must have been something to watch. Too bad Jesse missed it.

Hanzo scoots the tray to the bed, removing the cover with something of a flourish. There’s sausages, fried potatoes, thick slices of toast with jam, and a couple of fried eggs. Lying on its side tucked next to the plate is _his_ half empty bottle of hot sauce. Breakfast fit for a king.

“Did you make this?” Jesse asks, incredulous. He loves Hanzo, but the man isn’t exactly a marvel in the kitchen.

“I might have leveraged Mr. Wilhelm’s hospitality,” Hanzo says, abashed. That seems much more likely. It was still sweet of him.

Jesse pushes himself up and tucks in while it’s still warm. Hanzo makes a show of going back to reading, but he doesn’t scroll on his tablet once while Jesse eats. Jesse doesn’t dare point it out, and doesn’t begrudge the scrutiny.

Jesse cleans the plate. He hasn’t felt that hungry in a long time, and now the full belly weighs him down. He scoots back into the bed and settles in. Hanzo reaches up and snags his hand, curling his fingers loosely around it.

They sit in companionable silence. Hanzo’s hand is warm on his, and it’s quiet enough Jesse can hear the faint whisper of his breathing. The morning sunlight is bright, but easy on his eyes. He can imagine the sea breeze outside, how nice it would be.

It’s a nice moment.

It lasts for a long time, though not long enough. He hears Angela’s quick footsteps in the hallway outside before she appears in the door. She looks upbeat, a small smile on her face. Captain Amari appears behind her, holding a bundle of clothes in her arms. She drops the clothes in Jesse’s lap. They’re his, though they smell very strongly of detergent.

Angela brushes her bangs out of her face and moves to a physician’s imitation of attention.

“Athena just finished with the comparison of your ingest scans with the extrapolations from the older ones.” She holds her tablet out for Jesse to see. It shows _something._ “You had a concussion, but that’s healing and there’s nothing in the way of lesions or scarring. In fact, compensating for that concussion, your neurology is well within the normal deviations between now and a few months ago.”

“That’s good news?” Hanzo asks, leaning forward to see the tablet.

“Well, yes. Though—there one more thing I’d like to clarify.”

“Shoot,” Jesse says.

“You mentioned hallucinations—what exactly did you see?”

Jesse licks his lips to by himself time. There’s no good way to phrase it.

“I—I saw Boss. Gabe. Except, he wasn’t right.” Jesse tugs on the skin of his own face, as if that could possibly convey the sight. “It was nightmarish.”

Angela frowns. Captain Amari is perfectly still beside her, giving nothing away.

“It’s not out of the realm of possibility, based on what I know they gave you, that you would see something strange. With no accompanying physical damage and your ability to parse out their attempts to coerce you, I’m not worried overmuch about releasing you. I think, based on all evidence available to me, that you are every bit yourself and nothing more.”

Jesse sags with relief. He glances to Hanzo, who’s unabashedly grinning.  Hanzo pulls him over and places a kiss on his temple.

Angela begins taking off the sensors with practiced motions. Hanzo has to relinquish his hold on Jesse’s hand briefly for her to work. Jesse tries to examine his own mental state. Aside from the recent physical and emotional toll, he does feel like himself.  

When he’s free, he starts pulling off the scrubs he’d been dressed in and putting his own clothes on instead. Everyone in this room has seen him naked or worse already, so there’s really no reason to feel bashful. Hanzo starts asking Angela more questions, spurring a long, jargon filled explanation.

Jesse shakes himself out. It feels good to be standing on his own two feet, in his own clothes again. He just needs his hat. He raises his eyebrows at Captain Amari, looking for her appraisal. She fusses with his collar for a moment, then takes him aside.

“You said you hallucinated Gabriel?”

 Jesse lifts his hand to the back of his neck. It’s been a long time, but Gabe’s death still stings. He deserved better than he got. Ana reaches out and places her hand on his arm, her eyes deadly serious.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Jesse, there’s something I have to tell you.”

**Author's Note:**

> There's now a salty-ass post spelling out the subtext at my blog. Maximum salt. Just the saltiest. Salt is in my username, don't give me that look. (https://handstitchedcircuitboards.tumblr.com/post/170457337183/t-so-theres-definitely-a-risk-when-writing)
> 
> I might revise with a low sodium version in the future, but that doesn't super sound like me.


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